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For those who don’t know, the Twitter feed @tinderfessions is a cornholecopia of pervy and depraved confessions of Tinder users, the Weimar era-approved app that allows people to quickly geolocate future husbands and wives for intimacy trial runs. :lol:

If even half the stuff on Tinderfessions is true, the republic is hurtling towards its doom faster than anyone thinks. Reader ivanhoseph77 writes,

Tinderfessions will cure you of any betaness instantly. It will also cure you of any lingering fondness for LTR’s or marriage.

It shows the global march of absolute sexual anarchy in stark relief. We are so far past any attempt at turning back from semen filled gutters of our society it’s not even funny.
It’s a poon paradise. Nobody in their right mind would even CONSIDER an LTR or marriage when looking at the stark reality.
“Virtue has it’s own rewards” my ass. As CH would say, “sit poolside, imbibe of the delights, and enjoy watching it burn.” There is nothing else to be done. Literally.
That twitterfeed will fell any idealized notions you may be absurdly clinging to.

The modern sexual market appears to be in the process of bifurcating. The religious and (relatively) prudish are making babies; the secular and debauched are not. Has this ever happened before in American history? Good question. How representative is Tinderfessions of the public’s sexual behavior? Also a good question.

Having read enough social media in various interchangeable formats, I notice that online communication — for all its passionate sperm und wang — reveals very little of love or aspirations to love. From unformed men this is expected; from women it’s jarring. The divine and mysterious has been strip-mined from sex, leaving behind an abandoned pit.

Maybe the quest for human happiness is better served by a little less convenience and a little more struggle.

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Women expertly wield the “loser” shiv against men they don’t like (or don’t find attractive) because they know — or at least their unconscious knows — that the insult sticks. A man’s SMV (sexual market value) is, in large part, a measure of his social status. Loser men simply don’t compete very well in the mate market.

The equivalent insult against women is “ugly”. Women’s SMV is less a function of their social status than it is of their looks, so being called ugly is the kind of jab that penetrates all the way to the female id. But calling a woman a loser when she is indeed a loser can still wrest a shock of pain, and provide ancillary societal benefits, such as ostracism of the loser woman by other women.

But women are rarely called losers because they are protected by the penumbra emanating from the fundamental premise. In times like these of female regression to a hellcunt mean, this protective bubble of automatic deference helps spread the shamelessness virus of female loserdom until it infects all classes and strata.

Therefore, CH decrees that the time is now to start calling out loser women for the losers they are, using a colloquial definition of the word “loser” that is quite a bit more stringent than the excessively broad definition applied by women tarring men with the label. Who are loser women?

Single moms (excluding widows): LOSERS.
Fatties: LOSERS.
Spinsters: LOSERS.
Cougars: LOSERS.
Childless careerists: LOSERS.
Social media attention whores: LOSERS.
Feminists: LOSERS.
Sluts: LOSERS.
Divorcees (with exceptions): LOSERS.
Mudsharks (with exceptions): LOSERS. (Proof.)
Porn whores who want the world to know what they do for a living and don’t think it will affect their prospects of marrying a high value man: LOSERS.
Women who take selfies of their asses while their infant daughters watch: LOSERS.

Let your shiv flag fly, paladins of the patriarchy.

Shame a loser, save a nation’s soul.

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There is much hand-wringing by the hypocrati over the below-replacement fertility rates of overeducated, urban leftoid, credentialist suck-up, status whoring SWPLs. However will civilization carry on if our progressive snarkmeisters disappear down the sinkhole of Darwinian finality?

Well, I’m here to tell you that Western civilization will carry on quite well, and certainly better than it has the past 60 years. For evidence of the source of my sureness, review this quote by Thomas Aquinas on the Catholic Church’s prohibition of cousin marriage aka inbreeding:

Afterwards, however, towards these latter times the prohibition [against cousin marriage] of the Church has been restricted to the fourth degree, because it became useless and dangerous to extend the prohibition to more remote degrees of consanguinity. Useless, because charity waxed cold in many hearts so that they had scarcely a greater bond of friendship with their more remote kindred than with strangers: and it was dangerous because through the prevalence of concupiscence and neglect men took no account of so numerous a kindred, and thus the prohibition of the more remote degrees became for many a snare leading to damnation.

Aquinas was a man who rightly perceived the dangers inherent in both too little and too much outbreeding. (Were we blessed with such wise men today!) Inbreeding encourages clan-based violence and decreases social trust, two consequences that are anathema to the development of modern civ. But too much outbreeding (EatPrayBang!) decreases charitable kin-feeling and incentivizes a decadent ennui that severs the citizen’s sense of obligation to his nation and co-ethnics.

Where is this thought leading? The native stock of the West is clearly suffering from a mental sickness caused by too much outbreeding. Universalism is the religion of liberal whites, and they cleave so strongly to this secular religion that they are happy, nay overjoyed!, to throw the borders open and bequeath their hard-won territory and culture to battalions of Third Worlders and other temperamentally distant aliens, who of course given large enough numbers will promptly, whether wittingly or consequentially, execute its destruction.

The liberal SWPLs’ universalist instinct is so deeply embedded that it’s become a danger to their own reproductive fitness. If it were just themselves they were (unproductively) screwing, that would be fine; unfortunately they’re screwing everyone who has to live under their administrative tyranny.

So it is with great sadistic glee that I put two and two together and conclude that the passing of the sweep of SWPL liberals into the prolapsed hole of history will prove, ultimately, a good thing for the reconstitution and continuation of Western civilization, and in particular of America. Whether through the act of some subconscious calculation, or environmental disincentive, or perhaps via a divinely directed cosmic rebalancing working magic on the impervious hindbrains of self-destructive fools, the children of universalist leftoids are fewer by the hour, and their complete demise closer by the day.

We should be welcoming this fitness adjustment for the ray of hope it delivers. Prosperity can turn on accidental fortune. Runaway universalism, it would appear, contains the seed of its doom, and in its death there will be rebirth. The gods of the copybook headings will have their laugh at last.

So pass out the condoms, fire up the abortion mills, parade the sluts, stream the cuck porn, shove those freebie Pills down the throats of SWPL princesses, and bask in your righteousness, knowing that your tribute in distasteful utilitarianism will pay handsome rewards to your posterity.

Truly, the SWPL is the cuckold of the world. Pronounce it “swipple”. Let it snap off the lips with pleasing hatefulness. It stands for “white person who gets a leetle chill down his neck when a black doctor is on the TV”. Remind the SWPL in your company that there is no moral obligation to uplift the world’s wretched refuse. If they balk, remind them again of their atheism.

SWPL is the cuckold of the world
Yes he is…think about it
SWPL is the cuckold of the world
Think about it…do something about it

We make him sit in the corner and watch
If he won’t be a cuck
we say that he’s a bigot

If he’s real, we say he’s
trying to be a racist
While pulling his pud he
pretends that he is above us

SWPL is the cuckold of the world…yes he is
If you don’t belive me take a
look to the one you’re with
SWPL is the slave of
the slaves
Ah yeah…better screem
about it
We make him pay and raise
our children
And then we leave him flat for
being a cuckold beta male
We tell him home is only a
fantasy
Then we complain that he’s
too pale-skinned to be a man

SWPL is the cuckold of the world…yes he is
If you don’t belive me take a
look at the manboob filth
SWPL is the slave of
the slaves
Yeah (think about it)

We insult him everyday on TV
And wonder why he has no
guts or confidence
When he’s young we kill his
will to be free
While telling him there’s no such thing as smarts
we put him down for being so dumb

SWPL is the cuckold of the world…yes he is
If you don’t belive me take a
look at John Scalzi’s tits
SWPL is the slave of
the slaves
Yes he is…if you belive me,
you better screem about it.

Repeat:
We make him pull his
pud and prance
We make him trash his
seed for laughs
We make him axe his
balls as penance
We make him rend his
soul in half

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Continuing with our latest CH series exploring the historical records for choice bits of wisdom that would be the equivalent of PUA game and Heartistian theories of the sexual market today, reader Arbiter forwards this excerpt from a 1902 issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine (before it became a women’s rag. Rag. Heh.):

The author explains the “Sissy”:

He is polite and rather anxious to please. He wishes always to do the thing which happens to be the proper thing at any given time. He never would think of initiating anything novel or starting out in a new and unexpected course. He likes very much to be with ladies, and ladies like him – in a way. He is a most useful creature and absolutely harmless, intended by Providence to carry wraps and rugs, to order carriages, to provide theater-tickets, flowers, bon-bons, opera-boxes and four-in-hands, according to his means and the position which he holds. He will call regularly upon a girl and in fact upon all the girls he knows, and he will keep it up for years, and it will never mean anything to him or to them, for he is essentially a tame cat…He is really an indispensable person in our modern life; for it is desirable that young women should have some male creature about them to fetch and carry – one who will do it all for the mere pleasure of the service, and who will never agitate them and disquiet them or make them feel it necessary to be on their guard.

“In a way”. :lol: :lol:

In 1902, (a modern age to the men living back then), men knew what being a beta orbiter meant. Thus we have proof that the sexless friendzone and the female exploitation of servile, supplicating men for “beta bux” have existed for over 100 years, and probably a hell of a lot longer than that.

He then proceeds to describe the qualities that make men respect other men. The explanation is long, but in short he must be honorable, reasonable, courageous and gentle.

The last one does not mean being effeminate, but a refinement in character:

Intellectually it means intuition, sensitiveness to all impressions, and the imaginative element which illumines the dark places of the mind and shows the way to great achievement. Temperamentally it denotes gentleness, and the tenderness which is the perfect complement to strength. It is to men who have this last and finest gift, that other men, since history began, have given not alone their liking but their service, their devotion, and their very lives.

What then is the conclusion? Men like in men these traits: the honor that ennobles; the justice that insures the right; the reasonableness that mellows and makes plain; the courage that proclaims virility; the generous instinct that disdains all meanness; the modesty that makes no boast; the dignity that wins respect; the fineness and the tenderness that know and feel. But when one thinks of it more carefully, may he not sum it up in just a single sentence, and accept it as truth, that all men like a gentleman?

Beta niceguys reading the above passage are undoubtedly saying to themselves, “Reasonableness? Generosity? Modesty? Tenderness? Hey, wait, I have all those qualities! Why don’t men admire me and women invite me to their beds?”

Because, dear beta, you must impress upon people you are those virtuous things by choice, and not by necessity. And the way to prove that is by first demonstrating that you are capable of behaving in the opposite fashion, as suits your needs.

Take a page from the sexy jerk. Watch how he shits with impunity on the polite norms of society, gets the girl and the admiration of his friends, and then pulls a rabbit out of the hat with a sudden and unexpected generous gesture that provokes an explosion of love kibbles raining on his dinner plate.

People, particularly women, overdose on virtue quickly. The scarcity principle applies here. You don’t want to be that dependable guy who’s always there for her; you want to be that inscrutable dark triad jerk whose occasional forays into the Light are greeted with glowing encomiums and flowering furrows.

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The Book of the Courtier, published in 1528 by Castiglione, dispenses courtship advice that will sound very familiar to modern practitioners of the crimson arts.

[T]he book, whose subject is the proper behavior of men and women at the courts of Renaissance princes, was written by Baldassare Castiglione, an aristocrat, soldier and diplomat who died, at age 50, less than a year after publication of his magnum opus. [...]

For Castiglione the courtier should be acquainted with great literature, know music to the point of being able to play an instrument, be skilled at the arts of oratory, and in conversation employ exquisite tact and apply the art, in his memorable phrase, of “cheating expectations.”

Poon Commandment VI.

VI. Keep her guessing

True to their inscrutable natures, women ask questions they don’t really want direct answers to. Woe be the man who plays it straight — his fate is the suffering of the beta. Evade, tease, obfuscate. She thrives when she has to imagine what you’re thinking about her, and withers when she knows exactly how you feel. A woman may want financial and family security, but she does not want passion security. In the same manner, when she has displeased you, punish swiftly, but when she has done you right, reward slowly. Reward her good behavior intermittently and unpredictably and she will never tire of working hard to please you.

AKA, cheat her expectations.

Not only must the courtier acquire all these skills, he must display them with a casual air of easy mastery. The ideal courtier, Castiglione writes, “must put every effort and diligence into outstripping others a little, so that he may be always recognized as better than the rest.” But he must do so without showing the least strain or hint of affectation. He is to accomplish this through sprezzatura, the art of artlessness, or the art that hides art.

Amused mastery. Demonstrate higher value. Don’t be try-hard. All concepts of modern pickup artist seduction technology that were once Renaissance era wisdom.

The point of the courtier making himself so charming, and of his elegant display of mastery of the arts, is that through them he will raise himself in the prince’s esteem, thereby seducing him into heeding his advice. If the excellence of the courtier’s cultural attainments is “the flower” of his training, “the fruit” lies in helping his prince “toward what is right and to warn him against what is wrong.”

People will hear you better if they are first charmed to fondness.

Game denialists who deploy, among their many ineffectual fusillades against Chateau Heartiste, the argument that game is an aping of the primitive cultures lack all historical perspective. European philosopher-kings knew game, and knew it so well they elevated it from the savannah and refined its practice to suit the demands of their world-beating civilization.

Seduce your fair women to ecstatic surrender. Anything less would be… uncivilized.

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The woman is on the left, the man on the right.

Something strange is happening to men and women of the West. This can’t end well.

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The datanauts at OKCupid ran the back channel numbers for New York City to find out who among the city’s 400,000 users on the dating site were the “most desired”, an appellation that relied on the simple metric of which users received the most messages from lovelorn horndogs. (More on that later.)

CH has taken issue before with OKCupid’s liberal-leaning data crunching team for sampling bias and misinterpretation of their findings. Analytical flaws aside, this very rough measure of “most desirable OKCupid user” does offer us a glimpse into the radioactive, hyperventilated, full metal jacketed sexual market of New York City, the American city with, arguably, the greatest concentration of 9s and 10s after LA and Miami. What does the crude sampling of OKCupid messages received say about New Yorkers’ sexual tastes?

I’m afraid, not anything flattering. However, there’s nary a fatty in sight, so at least NYC cleared that low hurdle.

First up, the NYC woman “voted” most desirable by OKCupid message ballot count is a heavily tattooed courtesan with a FUCK MY STARFISH cumdumpster gaze:

Cutting to the lace, this chick, as seen here, is a 7.5. CH deems her in her present state totally bang-worthy. But what does she look like underneath her three layers of industrial grade make-up and complimentary lighting? Drawing on my vast reservoir of expertise, I bet she drops to a 6 in the sunshine-y morning sans artificial face. The tats, of course, are a major slut giveaway. Not that sluttiness is necessarily a bad thing; it depends on a man’s perspective. Does he want a faithful girlfriend, or a bedroom adventure?

The impression this girl wants to leave on potential suitors is 1. I’m a fucktoy, 2. I will keep you at a distance and never let you know the real me, and 3. I’m an attention whore with a burdensome and unnecessary high female IQ and a low self-esteem nurtured by doubts about my ability to get a real alpha male player to commit, and so I will pretend I’m the one choosing my inglorious cad-chasing, pump and dumping lifestyle.

If you don’t believe my astute psychological diagnosis, here’s some choice quotes from her:

It doesn’t hurt that Lauren, after getting out of a four-year relationship with a “pathological liar” [ed: chicks dig... ah fuck it, you know the drill] who had a drug problem, isn’t necessarily looking for anything serious. So, in OKCupid’s searchable “I’m looking for …” section, she, like most women, selected “long-term dating,” “short-term dating,” and “new friends.” Unlike most women, she also selected “casual sex,” figuring she might as well tell the truth.

“At first, I thought if you listed ‘casual sex,’ guys would realize that even though I don’t want to be in a relationship with you, we can still go out, get drinks,” she says, but it triggered a vulgar explosion of come-ons. “It’s like, I’m not a prostitute. But they don’t get that.”

The attention, she admits, has been flattering—an ego boost after a rough breakup. She also confesses that she was “never the pretty girl” growing up and appreciates being in the position to approve or ignore other people.

Online dating: Inflating the egos of subclinical headcases since… I dunno, when did this clitshow start?

The finding of Lauren as most desirable NYC OKCupid girl also tells us a lot about what men value in women they meet online: namely, quick sex. Undoubtedly, there are hotter girls than Lauren peep toe-ing along the city’s sidewalks, but they’re not on OkCupid. Or if they are, they’re not as likely to create an image of themselves as around-the-way gothgirls. Lauren’s incomprehensibly vaunted position in the OKCupid universe is symptomatic of the problems with online dating, for both men and women: One, users (especially female users) are a self-selected bunch of marginal SMV participants. The really ugly and the really pretty are, respectively, too dispirited or too romantically successful in the real world to bother with the hassle. Two, women who dress like they spread faster than melted butter will naturally attract the eyeballs of a lot of men looking for a good time. Try to explain this common sensical functioning of the dating market to an SMRT, HIGH IQ city sister and you’ll get an earful of feminist boilerplate in return.

And don’t forget the probable demographic of OKCupid’s male users. Whom do gothgirls with NASA links attract? Nerds. What’s a nerd’s dating life like? The vast empty cosmos. Put the two together and you get a Lauren-sized ego relishing the desperation of 8,000 loveless nerds. 8,000 smart, economically productive nerds who don’t stand a chance against pathologically lying, badboy drug addicts.

I’d fuckin laugh if it weren’t so banal. No wait, I am laughing. Shitting on nerds’ hopes still puts a smile on my face.

Next up, the lesbian found to be most desirable dyke in NYC:

Justin Fuckin Bieber! Lesbians may all be grossly obese and tolerant of their scissor partners’ fatness, but judging by the photo above of most desirable lesbian in NYC, lesbians would prefer to be with very skinny women. Obligate lesbians (as opposed to cute chicks who experiment sometimes) are ugly and go out of their way to look like men, but they retain particulars of the heterosexual female mind, such as a preternatural ability to overlook physical flaws in a lover. Now I wonder if perhaps lesbians secretly desire the love of thin women, just like straight men do, but don’t give enough of a shit to bother with the effort since they know that gardening and softball sublimate nicely for bed death.

Anyhow, enough of this lesbian. I can’t stand looking anymore at those two bones passing for an ass on her.

For prolapsed giggles, here’s the photo of New York’s most desirable gay man on OkCupid:

Can we stop prancing around the subject and just admit that gay men are borderline Peter Panny pedophiles who love dat schoolboy charm? Not that I’d give them too much shit for it. If straight men had the option and the social sanction, we’d all be banging barely legal girleens.

One of the “winners’ was a straight man, but I see no reason to include his pic here. Not much to say, except he’s decent-looking and appears to have a sense of humor and knows how to demonstrate higher value, (of which the latter two traits are likely the greater attributing factors to his OKCupid popularity).

At a dark, candlelit West Village bar, James Hawver, a 29-year-old real-estate agent and New York’s most popular straight guy, is the living embodiment of his OKCupid handle, MyTiesAreSkinny. Preppily handsome, he’s dressed in a well-fitting H&M blazer with, yes, a skinny black tie and matching pocket square. James’s profile is peppered with references to his travels in Nepal and China and self-deprecatingly confident jokes like: “Ryan Gosling could play my stunt double. That is, if I didn’t already do my own stunts.” The whole profile is self-aware, right down to his height, which he lists as five-foot-nine, though he’s an inch shorter. “They say most guys add two inches,” he says, quoting OKCupid’s statistics blog, OKTrends. “I’m already behind!”

He also has a practical grasp of “law of large numbers” game.

But James has a few simple hacks to further improve his odds. He uses both ­OKCupid­ and Tinder, an app that is almost solely photo-based. Both are owned by IAC, the company that also owns Match.com. In the three and a half hours we spend talking, the phone will ping 47 times: On Tinder, 35 women will match with him; 12 women on ­OKCupid­ will either ­message or favorite him. The week before, he took a screenshot of a Tinder notification: 890 new matches, a personal record. And he has a basic strategy. Like a lot of guys, he was wasting time studying the profiles and photos of women who would never respond. Then a friend shared a deviously simple online-dating trick.

“You ready for the secret?” James asks me. “Not to blow your mind, but it’s disgusting …” He picks up his phone. “So, every couple days, I will do this,” he says. He opens the Tinder app, but before
I can see the first woman’s face, he swipes right: interested. If the woman he likes also swipes right, he has an official match. In short: He never swipes left (not interested).

“I will say yes to every single person,” James says. And he never follows up with someone who hasn’t already confirmed her interest. On ­OKCupid,­ he does the same thing: He gives everyone five stars (and if someone gives him four or fives stars in return, the site will notify him of a match). By doing so, he exposes himself to less risk, an appealing upside to James, who’s had two difficult breakups. He’s since had thousands of matches—so many that he’s had to refine his strategy.

By the way, you’ll note that James receives FAR fewer messages from women than Lauren receives from men. A handsome man simply can’t expect the same kind of lustful stampede from hordes of women than a pretty woman signaling sexual availability can expect from men.

“The last person I matched with was Allison,” he says. If he were to send a message to Allison on a Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday, it would read: Hey there Miss Allison. What kind of trouble did you get into this weekend? :) “That’s exactly what I do, every fucking time,” he says, laughing. For Wednesday: Hey there Miss Allison. What sort of trouble are you getting into this week? :) Thursday or Friday: What kind of trouble are you getting into this weekend? :) And if it’s Saturday: What kind of trouble have you been getting into? :)

Kind of a cheesy line, but if you drop it on fifty girls a week you’re bound to hit pay dirt on a couple.

The overall vibe one gets from the current online dating scene is one of self-protectiveness and exploitation. Not that it hasn’t always been like that, but these two trends have accelerated since I entered the plunderdome as a pre-teened, continuously turgid stripling. Some men are wising up to the mechanical nature of female sexuality, and women, in response (or as causal agents) are building emotional, snarl-fueled barriers around themselves, and sometimes even physical barriers like tattoos, which intimidate the beta saps and signal the alpha players to swoop in for the thrill. Women bitch about this state of affairs, but, like always, watch what they do. The vagina speaks louder than a million words.

It’s helpful to keep in mind when trawling online dating site data (you listening Rudder?) that “desirability” and “hotness” are not necessarily the same. A slutty 7 will get a lot more messages than a modest 10 for the simple reason that most men, average by definition, consider attainability in deciding which women to hit up for a romantic evening of ass eating.

And the same is true in real life. It may seem paradoxical, but the hottest girls actually get hit on less often than ordinarily cute 6s and 7s. If you want an explanation why 7s seem to have bigger egos than 9s, or why that fantastic 9 tossed you a lascivious look while that chubby 5 steamrolled right past you, there you go. This doesn’t mean really hot girls don’t know their own sexual value. 8s, 9s and 10s may not get directly hit on, but they experience plenty of indirect attention from men in the form of shell-shocked stares, furtive glances, craning necks and nervous fidgeting. Hotties subconsciously pick up these cues, but consciously may remain unaware just how awestruck men are in their company, which contributes to their frustration with not being approached as often as those subtle attraction clues from men would indicate.

It’s been said on other pickup sites, and it bears repeating: As a student of applied charisma, you’ll be surprised to find yourself having more success with hotter girls than you’re used to rather than with the plainer girls which have been your self-limiting expectation.

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The infamous lawyercunt is an archetype first identified (and happily ridiculed) by CH artisans of the hairy oyster. But the lawyercunt has gotten a little long in the fang. It isn’t that she’s grown mellower with age, or that her occupation has started attracting a less lizardly class of humans. It’s just that times change, and new opportunities for leeching off productive society attract the attention of master class attention whores with a taste for gratuitous drama and lying through their teeth.

Enter the social media consultant, aka Twittercunt.

If anyone can usurp the lawyercunt in cuntishness, it’s the Twittercunt. I was reminded of the Twittercunt’s foul ascendence up the social status ladder of our declining American empire whilst perusing the musings of the Lead Sadist over at MPC (My Patriarchal Cocksmanship):

real talk all the social media consultants I have met, which is a few, have been amoral opportunistic scumbags

I’ve also seen a few partners of mine stung by them, where they’ll bring in a social media person who will then shmooze the client and steer all the business to him and his friends

really they make used car salesman seem like altruistic do-gooders

It’s funny because around the time of reading that I was retelling a salacious story to a friend about a past lover of extraordinary wantonness who transmogrified into the very thing we both assumed she was fated to become: A social media consultant. I’ve known in the French way five or six Twittercunts (all women), and all but one were sociopathic sluts, capable of lying to their mamas’ faces if it meant an extension of family credit to shack up with a bike messenger. (The one exception, ironically, happened to be one of the sweetest, kindest girls with whom I’ve had the pleasure to share pleasure. I do fondly recall her on occasion.) I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that some of them amassed cock counts in the triple digits.

Not that I’m complaining. If you have game, a challenging demeanor, and an asshole attitude (to which she deeply relates), the social media cuntsultant is a sure thing, and down to submit to just about every degradation under a harvest moon. Just don’t expect her to make even empty gestures toward fidelity. She’ll fuck around on you, but as long as you go in knowing what she is, there’s poon gold to be mined until the bloom wears off the romance (three months, tops).

We now live in the age of high-tech, field tested, focus grouped, multimodal mastery over human perception, and the social media cuntsultant is its most psychopathically committed avatar.  You think I’m exaggerating? Take a look at this list of occupations which attract the most psychopaths. Number 2 is Lawyer, and number 3 is Media (TV/Radio). If you add number 4 (Salesperson) to number 3, you birth the social media whore anti-christ.

Oh well. A declining nation gets the middlewoman, amoral, self-promoting parasites it deserves.

(Good rule of thumb: If your nation has a lot of engineers working to put a man on the moon, you live in a golden era. If your nation has a lot of hucksters spinning gold out of carts of dung, start thinking about early overseas retirement.)

So here’s to you, Twittercunt, ouster of argumentative lawyercunts. You’re just as untrustworthy, slutty and good to go as your sophistic sisters, but at least you don’t make a federal case out of every minor disagreement.

A song for the new kunt in town:

There’s talk in the bars it sounds so familiar,
great expectations everybody’s watching you.
Players you meet they all seem to know you,
even your old friends treat you like the town screw.

Twittercunt maven,
the new ho in town,
everybody bangs you,
so chug your Pill down.

You look in her eyes the crazy is on display,
sex in the bathroom, here we go again.
But after awhile you’re thinkin’ she’s gonna stray,
it’s those restless muffs that always spread.

Twittercunt maven,
the new ho in town.
Will you catch VD
from her sideways frown?

There’s so many cocks she went and holstered,
but night after night you’re willing to bone her,
no rubber,
pray you recover.

There’s jive on Facebook it’s there to inflate her,
doesn’t really matter which client she sucks.
She’s LinkedIn and buzzed, creating nothing of value,
they will never forget her ’til her boobs are hitting the floor.

Where you been lately?
There’s a new ho in town.
Everybody bangs her,
don’t they,
and she’s SEOed
every penis around.
Oh my my
There’s a new ho in town
Just another new slore in town

hooooo, hoooo
Everybody’s banging out
hooooo, hoooo
the new ho in town,
hooooo, hoooo
Everywhere she’s walkin’ like
hooooo, hoooo
the town pound.

There’s a new ho in town,
(and you’re gonna hear it)
There’s a new ho in town,
(you just wanna hit it)
There’s a new ho in town,
a social media clown,
Her life’s a PR campaign.
Everybody’s talking
There’s a new ho in town
Players start to working
There’s a new ho in town…
and she gets passed around…
like her padded CV…
people say she’s easy…

It would be great if the reader who performed The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold could do a rendition of There’s a New Kunt in Town. He has a good voice.

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Do whites living in the West have a right to bitch about anti-white hatred? You bet. As PA clarifies in a comment over at GLPiggy,

In order to function normally, to keep a good mood, one has to intentionally blind himself to the organizing principle of the very society he lives in: White genocide.

I’ll occasionally feel its sting in a comment by Elk, or blogger THRASYMACHUS, a gentle-souled, thoughtful writer who relays observations from the edge. I can’t get Kayla Peterson out of my thoughts. Or, every time there is an internet article about schools, you see the cherubic faces of black kids, like a scene form Ghana rather than America — except when Yahoo posts “America’s Worst Schools” — you get a photo of white kids.

Hate fills any human being who opens his eyes to the horror and the humiliation of whites. Emma West’s ordeal — on that train with the animals growling at her and her little son, and then under the British police state.

And to stay sane, one looks away because there is not a thing he can do about any of this.

What PA is framing is what CH calls the “parade of humiliations”. Like the tactics of totalitarian communism before it, anti-white ideology thrives in part by its inquisitors visiting upon the victims an endless succession of humiliations. It’s not enough to propagandize with lies; the subject must be coerced to suffer the lies in silence, to accede to the primacy of the lies, and even to intone the lies as if they were the truth. Economic and social terrorism break the heart and mind, but humiliation breaks the soul.

Let there be no mistaking what this parade of humiliations is: It is a war of hate, psychologically bloody if not yet physically bloody. The aggressors — the ruling elite and their useful Section Hate shock troops — despise whites, despise the concept of whiteness, and despise especially the idea that the territory and nation and culture from which they parasitically suck the lifeblood was created and sustained primarily by white men.

A parade of humiliations is a nefarious elite and a gullible bureaucratic class importing thousands of Somalis and dumping them in whitest Minnesota, where they multiply on the generosity of their host’s welfare largesse and then aggressively oust from power the very benefactors who opened doors to them.

A parade of humiliations is a disingenuous promise by condescending moralizers to fellow citizens that wildly foreign immigrant pawns will easily assimilate to local norms of conduct, and that any difficulty encountered during the assimilation process is proof that the natives have not been sufficiently welcoming and must be reeducated in the goodness of their displacers and the badness of their own self-consideration.

A parade of humiliations is a subhuman beast with an extensive criminal history free on probation by a sympathetic system, coldly gunning down a retiree in his home. The beast, shot through with demonic hatred, lied about needing assistance and exploited his prey’s naivete and magnanimous responsiveness. This incident in form and intent is a microcosm of the overarching assault on white America.

A parade of humiliations is the mass media studiously ignoring to the best of its plausible deniability the above stories of whites churned to bits by the anti-white death machine while trumpeting to the high heavens as vile hate crimes hoaxes targeted at whites.

A parade of humiliations is exiling from society any whites who dare notice their debasement.

Elite leftoid status whoring is all fun and games when nobody is the wiser and the costs are too diffuse to measure by endorsed economic formulae. But now the pain bites, and the parade of insults grates. The people on the sidewalks dumbly acquiescing to participation in their disparagement feel something they haven’t felt in a long time…

Rage.

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Via fellow sadists, the most Millennial statement ever put to print is:

“Here’s why that’s a problem.”

Pathological solipsism and mile wide but inch deep self-esteem are a bad combo. The id of the Millennial Like Me Generation is a furry suit wrapping a toddler. If normalcy and personal responsibility offend the Millennial, it will make sure you know, in poopytalk, how that’s a problem. Help the Millennial feel less like a reject; validate its problems.

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